The tornado, whirling through the makeshift huts of the villiage and knocking half the bandits off their horses. The other half galloped away, as the people of Ealdor, realising their sudden advantage, beat down with their sticks and pitchforks. Their home! And they would defend it.

But one man, even as he fought, wondered. Whirlwinds like that did not just appear from nowhere. He thrust his sword through a bandit, almost absentmindedly, and, when the battle was done, strode towards the source of it with a dark look on his face. Because he knew, he knew what he had seen. Merlin, one hand raised, eyes glowing gold....

And then the boy died, and he said he had been the sorcerer. Merlin did not dispute it, though in the beginning he looked like he was going to. So Arthur tried to believe it. All he had seen was dark hair through a cloud of dust, and he could of course have been mistaken, had to believe he had been mistaken, because otherwise why hadn't Merlin told him? They were friends, weren't they?

But he knew why. Merlin thought that Arthur would go straight to the guards, and ask questions later. And to be honest, he didn't know what he would have done, presented with the information from Merlin with no time to consider it. But having figured it for himself, with an excuse which would save Merlin if his father ever found out what had happened at the villiage.

And so he spent the journey home to Camelot riding alone at the front, and thinking. And thinking, he remembered the many unexplained events which had seemed to happen since the dark haired boy had waltzed into his life and challenged him to a duel.

And he began to realise exactly how many times he and his father could and would have died if not for Merlin's magic. Then surely magic couldn't be all bad?

Could it?